by Len Pennie
He said,‘Write me a poyum,’ this boy that I knew;
I said,‘Break my heart ?rst and I’ll write about you.’
Cause I only write poyums for money or love,
And since neither are o?ered, I think I’ll hold o?.
Because poetry lives in the breaking of hearts,
The end of beginnings, the stopping of starts.
And you come to me? Expect me to provide
An externalisation of things kept inside?
So, I wrote you this poyum, you chaotic man;
Once I broke both our hearts the way only I can.
Cause I sometimes write poyums when struck by that spark
Of cold inspiration igniting the dark;
I wrote about chaos, and things left unsaid,
And the way what you say invokes peace in my head.
He said,‘Write me a poyum,’ this boy that I knew,
I hope this one makes up for what I did to you.
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